


Did Not, Will Not

by LondonLioness



Series: The Experience Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashback, John is a Good Friend, PTSD, Part of the Experience Verse, Will stand alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: About four months after I moved in, my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, became the unwitting subject of an experiment orchestrated by his brother and some top secret government scientists. Details are classified, but the result was that Sherlock experienced a precognitive vision of meticulous detail that extended a full five years into the future. He emerged from this experience with full blown PTSD. He adamantly refused to share details with me, but from bits and bobs I was able to glean he foresaw something very bad happening to him in Serbia. He's suffered flashbacks of this, but this time it's different. This time, he's scared ofme.Ihurt him.
Series: The Experience Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513652
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Did Not, Will Not

**Author's Note:**

> So, one more for the Experience verse. And there will be one more after this, not sure when. The whole premise just seems to have more to say to me.
> 
> Angst as usual, but nothing too terrible, and a positively fluffy ending. We need a little fluffiness just about now I reckon...
> 
> Enjoy!

About four months after I moved in, my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, became the unwitting subject of an experiment orchestrated by his brother and some top secret government scientists. Details are classified, but the result was that Sherlock experienced a precognitive vision of meticulous detail that extended a full five years into the future. The future he foresaw was apparently a difficult one, for he emerged from this experience with full-blown PTSD. Sherlock was adamant about not sharing details of his vision with me, but from bits and bobs I was able to glean that he foresaw something Very Bad happening to him in Serbia. 

On this fine autumn evening, however, everything was peaceful. I was working on my latest blog post and Sherlock was at his microscope, cataloguing the absorption of bloodstains by different fibres. As I typed, I cracked open a tin of toffee nuts I'd bought. These were a salted caramel flavor I found delicious, and knowing Sherlock's sweet tooth, I thought he would appreciate them, too. Accordingly, I grabbed a handful and strolled over to where my friend was working. 

"Here, you gotta try these," I said, leaning forwards to offer the treat. 

Sherlock's reaction was dramatic. He flinched violently and exploded from his chair, circling the table to put it between us. Two long strides backwards and he was back against the sink, where he snatched a knife off the counter and held it in front of himself threateningly. Belatedly I realised he'd seen my fist coming at him out of the corner of his eye, which triggered a flashback. Careful not to make any sudden movements, I deposited the nuts on the table and wiped my rather sticky palm against my pants, considering. Sherlock was fairly quivering with high tension; I had no doubt the situation was very dangerous indeed.

I spoke quietly but firmly. "Sherlock. Sherlock, it's me, John." 

Unexpectedly, this garnered a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "Oh, I know," he replied. 

"You know me?" This was making no sense. "Well, then, you know you don't need that knife. Let's just..." I eased a step forward, but he hissed a sharp breath in through his teeth and brandished his weapon. 

"You stay back!" 

"OK." I stepped back and spread my hands, showing him they were open and empty. "Sherlock," I ventured, trying another tack, "what year is it?" 

"Two thousand f--" There, a flicker of doubt. He frowned and blinked rapidly and started over. "Two thou--" He broke off with a strangled gasp. A violent tremor tore through him, causing him to drop the knife, which thankfully, clattered away from him. He slid down against the cabinets until he was seated on the floor, left hand tangled in his curls while his right hand tugged at his buttons. He was shaking too hard to undo them, so he finally just tore the shirt open and plunged his hand inside, long fingers questing along his mid torso for something they did not find. 

I took advantage of his distraction to scoop up the knife and tuck it away. Then I approached him slowly. He'd started to rock slightly, chanting under his breath, and as I got closer, I could make out the words: 

"...not happen; it _will_ not happen. It _did_ not happen; it _will_ not happen. It _did_ not happen; it _will_ not happen..." 

"Sherlock?" I crept closer slowly, slowly. "Sherlock, may I..." 

I didn't have to finish the question, as a long arm snaked out, grabbed a fistful of my jumper, and tugged, drawing me down to his level. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants, then he started blowing out, out, out, until his lungs were completely empty. When he inhaled, he was able to fill his lungs, to his obvious relief. 

"Good!" I encouraged. "That's exactly right, Sherlock. Breathe." he repeated the exercise twice more, then looked up. To my relief, he was much calmer and seemed lucid again. 

"You will not hurt me," he said firmly. 

"That's right, I won't," I said agreeably. 

To my surprise, his grip on my jumper tightened and he gave me a little shake. There was definitely a flash of anger in his eyes as he insisted: "No. I mean: you will not hurt me. If you ever raise your hand against me, I _will_ fight back. I will _flatten_ you." 

"OK, fair warning," I agreed. His eyes searched mine for a long moment, then, apparently reassured, he released my jumper, smoothing it back into place before leaning back bonelessly against the cabinets. He took a moment to survey the damage to his shirt, his mouth making a sad moue as he noticed the amputated thread nubs where his buttons had been. 

I let the silence stretch a long minute before I spoke. "It wasn't Serbia this time, was it?" 

His head whipped around at that. "John. Don't." 

"It was me," I pressed forward. "You knew me, but you were still scared. Of me. _I_ hurt you." 

Sherlock replied firmly, "No, John. It never happened." 

"Obviously." I couldn't resist throwing his own word back at him. "But you remember..." 

"What I remember...!" Sherlock cut himself off, closing his eyes for a few seconds while he centred himself. "What I remember," he started over more calmly, "is a probabilistic pathway, one of an infinite number of such, actually. The theory is that I foresaw the most likely way for things to play out, but that's by no means definite. There were many places where events could have tipped one way or the other. I can think of one decision that literally came down to a coin toss. Granted, it was just which item to order off a menu..." he shrugged. 

"So you don't think it would have really gone that way?" 

"I think the probability is actually very small," he averred. "Think about that coin toss. Say it went the other way and the other option gave me food poisoning. So I wasn't available to work a case the next day, and a killer went free to kill again. Granted, that's an extreme example..." 

"No, I get it. That's the Butterfly Effect, isn't it? Small actions having large consequences." 

"Exactly. Then you have to consider that the longer the chain of action and consequences, the less likely any specific detail becomes. The event I flashed back on came at the end of my experience, after things had started getting nightmarish and incoherent. So altogether, I would call the probability vanishingly small." He smiled reassuringly. "I trust you implicitly, John. I will not allow the false memory of a non-event to change that."

We stood up, dusted ourselves off, and retired to the sitting room. I built up the fire while Sherlock went to change his shirt. By the time he came back, I'd had a few minutes to mull things over, and had come to an unwelcome conclusion. 

"The thing that bothers me," I said as I settled into my chair, "is that it's not so far-fetched. I know I carry a lot of rage inside me. It's why I go for walks when I feel myself getting angry: I'm afraid that if that rage got loose, I really could hurt someone." 

"The provocation was extreme and those circumstances will never arise now. I'm not afraid, John." 

"No, but I am. I never want to see fear on your face because of me. I'm horrified at the thought of hurting you. So I'm going to make an appointment with Ella and ask her about anger management therapy. I'll make sure it never happens." 

"You don't have to..." 

"No," I interrupted, "but it's for my own peace of mind." 

Admittedly, I had never had any patience for these types of classes before, but this incident was the extra motivation I needed to really apply myself. As I built my coping mechanisms, my confidence grew that the false memory would stay exactly that. I would not hurt my friend. 

Never did, never will. 

  


-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> If it's not clear, the thing Sherlock is searching for on his torso is the scar from the gunshot wound, which of course, never happened in this verse.
> 
> Hope you liked that! I think John really would do that, don't you? To quote Sherlock's words to Mrs. Hudson, what a tender world that would be.
> 
> Leave kudos and comments and the bluebird of happiness will fly (carefully!) over your head.


End file.
